


Raising "Steam"

by Bobsled_Hostage



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 04:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14992964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobsled_Hostage/pseuds/Bobsled_Hostage
Summary: “You know, I think it’s like horseradish,” said Adora Belle thoughtfully.“Pardon?”“Like…well, horseradish is good in a beef sandwich, so you have some. But one day a spoonful just doesn’t cut the mustard—”“As it were,” said Moist, fascinated.“—and so you have two, and soon it’s three, and eventually there’s more horseradish than beef, and then one day you realize the beef fell out and you didn’t notice.”“I don’t think that is the metaphor you’re looking for,” said Moist, “because I have known you to make yourself a horseradish sandwich.”





	1. Chapter 1

It had all started with his work on the railroad. The Patrician had, in the midst of everything Moist von Lipwig was already grappling with, demanded that the Ankh-Morpork and Sto Plains Hygienic Railway be immediately extended to Überwald, no great rush. In the interest of keeping all his parts attached to his body and all his internal organs internal, Moist had spent the next several days-weeks-months in a burst of feverish activity. One afternoon, brain fried by several sleepless days of how much tax exempt debt the Royal Bank should issue versus the amount of equity which should be sold to the project’s financiers, Moist had been visited by his stalwart goblin ally (at least one of those words being an accurate descriptor) Of the Twilight Darkness. The goblin chided Mister Slightly Damp for neglecting to maintain a reasonable sleep cycle, and proffered a bottled remedy which he intimated would solve the problem:

_“Guaranteed no worms and it will give you a refreshing sleep and you feel a lot better if you wake up in the morning! Guaranteed!”_

And he _had_ felt better when he woke up in the morning. He had felt better, and Spike had asked him what he had been doing all night and if there was another woman she should know about. He had quipped something about fast and loose women, which was which, and if his wonderful wife could arrange a practicum for him. What followed, Moist thought, had been a bit of alright. More than alright, in fact. Given their predilection toward escapades spanning whole different time zones at odd hours of the day and night, he rarely saw Adora Belle. Anything that allowed them to make the most of the time they had together was an improvement.

It had been a few days later that there had been a clack from his wife. Patrician wants to see you about the next crisis he’s about to drop in your lap, get bread on your way home, etc. And:

_PS Any chance of bringing home some of that goblin potion with you. Stop._

After that it became a pattern.

Which had been fine at first. Better than fine. He liked waking up feeling like every nerve was singing. It was that buzzing in every cell of his body that he thought he could only get from lying straight to someone’s face, or a pursuit gone just-horribly-wrong enough that he really wasn’t sure if he’d outrun the man with the very large knife this time. All of that, plus the sex was absolutely incredible. And Adora Belle liked it too.

A lot.

Which was also better than fine. Except for that once she knew what she liked, she wanted more of it. Which meant he had to keep taking the stuff. Which meant he had to wonder if it was exactly healthy.* And to wonder out loud in a roundabout way if perhaps it wasn’t a bit of a slur on his husbandly prowess that she so vastly preferred him when his performance was, shall we say, ‘alchemically enhanced’. Spike told him directly that if he was going to be _that way_ then she would try a hit of the stuff as well, so that they could both feel suitably inadequate.

And they’d woken up that next morning and fucked for three straight hours. Or rather, one and a half hours, interrupted by a mad scramble to appear somewhat clothed before Crossly reached the top of the stairs with the breakfast service. Then five minutes to polish off bacon, eggs, hash, fried slice, coffee, tea and orange juice _et al._ to replenish fluids spent on sweat*** and calories spent on vigorous, repetitive motion. Then back to sweat and vigorous, repetitive motion for the next one hour and fifteen minutes.

If it had been a pattern before, it was a whole fractal after that.

 

* * *

 

*(Yes, Moist was no stranger to a little pick-me-up. Like the man** said, _in Überwald, nothing gets a man out of bed in the morning and out working in six feet of snow to hammer through the plug of ice in the well faster than a mug of hot Splot_ . And yes, goblin brews had gotten him out of (or into, depending on your view) several jams in the past. But any gentleman-of-the-road knows that you don’t let yourself become _dependent_ on the stuff)

**(or Igor)

***(Among other things)


	2. Chapter 2

One of Spike’s eponymous heels was stuck to the southeast four-post of the four-poster bed. The shoe bounced up and down in a rough analogue to the movement of the bed itself. Adora Belle would admit, if pressed, that she liked the way wearing them made her feel (though not the way it felt to wear them). Moist would admit without much prompting that he loved the way her ass looked when she wore them and nothing else. But the heels proved to be another matter entirely when the ankles they were attached to were thrown over his shoulders. After a couple close calls involving the pointy end of the shoes and the fleshy parts of his ear, the newlyweds came to the mutual agreement that it would be better to take them off during foreplay before someone (that someone being Moist) lost an eye.

If Mrs. Crossly were to burst in with breakfast in bed for the master and mistress of the house, she might wonder privately about the scarf around Mister von Lipwig’s neck, tied tight enough to bruise. And why his loving wife was yanking it tighter as they fucked.*

Spike bounced on his cock like she did everything else: will skill, poise, and a natural viciousness. Springs creaked and wood groaned beneath them. Moist wondered crassly, as he did with increasing frequency, if this would be the day they finally broke the Effing bed** The way she glided up and down his cock was even silkier than the piece of cloth knotted around his neck. They had, by mutual agreement, denuded their respective genitals of any offending bristle - after a particularly energetic morning left them with embarrassing and uncomfortable second degree friction burns. And, it cut down on the amount of sticky mess that had to be gently (or less than gently) rinsed out of recalcitrant follicles.

Moist’s whole body felt boiling hot and tingly all over. It was  _ incredible _ , he’d found single sensory experience that could replicate what he’d been missing, as much as he claimed to hate it: that feeling of riding atop an avalanche that could crush him at any moment. There was just the little matter of his lungs, which at the moment were convinced they were the victims of a completely innocent clerical error. Some unfortunate mixup in the smooth delivery of oxygen from lungs to blood to brain, which they desperately hoped, if it wasn’t too much trouble, would be swiftly remedied.

His wife bore down, meeting ass to pelvis and huffing audibly. She braced herself against his chest, using her free hand to twist more of the scarf into her grip.

Oh

This was it. He was going to pass out, at best, and at worst actually commend his soul to any God who would have it.

Spike pulled

Moist came so hard he saw stars.****

 

* * *

 

*(There had been a night that Moist woke up screaming and thrashing after the latest iteration of the hanging dream. This merited some explaining to a concerned Adora Belle. Not because she was unaware of her husband’s reliving his brief encounter with Daniel “One Drop” Trooper again and again on a semi-nightly basis. But because this was the first time Moist’s aforementioned screaming and thrashing had been accompanied by an erection that could cut dwarf bread. His loving wife had postulated that this was a natural extension of Moist’s fixation on things that were not, strictly speaking, good for him. She explained that if you listened to the right (or in this case, wrong) people, you could learn a lot about words like ‘hypoxia’ and ‘erotic asphyxiation’. And that the effects of such might even be compounded by the heightened energy consumption and oxygen usage that resulted from their almost-nightly use of the potion. And that if he wanted, it was something they could explore. In a way she would make sure didn’t end for him the way it did for a lot of careless unfortunates who tried doing it to themselves.

Which is why now she was choking him while she rode his dick.)

**(A marriage bed from the Effing Forest was considered a  _ haute _ *** wedding present, cementing the otherwise unremarkable glen as the Gods’ gift to joinery)

***(A quirmian word, which Moist had it on good authority meant “hot”)

****(Saw them, as one did in Ankh-Morpork, through the usual patina of smog and light pollution)


	3. Chapter 3

Moist Von Lipwig sucked in enormous gulps of air. Everything felt very sharp and very real, and very good. Good enough to lie there for a moment before someone or something immediately demanded his attention. Parts of him which had recently been overused were reminding him that they were still there, as much as he seemed determined to wear them out.

Moist kept meaning to ask someone about the long term side effects of overusing the potion. An alchemist or apothecary or Of the Twilight Darkness, or someone else knowledgeable. There were moments when he felt so swollen up with rapidly thrumming blood that he worried some especially blood filled part of him would burst from the overpressure. If he was lucky, it would be his heart. If not...

It really was like Spike had said that day they opened up the old banker’s cabinet of curiosities, finding in it an absurd array of sex toys. You eat a sandwich and think it could use a spot of horseradish. Then one day that doesn’t do it, so you add a little more. Then one day you’re eating a horseradish sandwich. There would be a day, he worried, when they found they could no longer consummate their marriage without the nightly swig of goblin love juice.*

And in addition to immediate and possible long-term side effects, there was the other hypothetical consequence that reared its hairless, peachy head whenever a married (or otherwise) couple found themselves regularly enjoying one another’s affections without due care and diligence. And they  _ were  _ taking due care, but when the number of times you are required to exercise due diligence approaches the double digits on a daily basis, accidents are bound to happen. Oh, they’d talked about children before. Talked and left the subject comfortably unresolved. He wasn’t sure it was a great fit for either of their lifestyles.** Would the Patrician give Moist a day off to slap bottoms and change nappies the next time he needed something doing, no great rush?

Spike slapped Moist von Lipwig on the bottom.

“If you’re quite finished lying around, dearest husband: you had your turn, and I’m still waiting for mine”

He looked up from where he was lying around. Adora Belle was sitting against the headboard, skin flushed rosy pink, hair plastered with sweat. Still wearing nothing, with the minor addition of the tight, bright red scarf that moments ago had been squeezing the life (and something else) out of him. The oxygen rich blood necessary for worrying about the future immediately deserted his brain, headed to an organ he would be getting a lot more use out of in the next hour, bare minimum.

 

* * *

 

*(No, not that goblin love juice. Adora Belle wasn’t  _ that  _ kind of goblin lover)

**(He may have laughed when the lads joked about Mister and Missus von Lipwig bringing home a bundle of clay from the hospital, but Moist at least had the decency to feel somewhat hurt on her behalf. Mostly because someone would end up more-than-somewhat hurt on her behalf if she ever found out)


End file.
